Devil's Dice

I knew it was the prostrate body of a man, and a wild cry escaped me when next second I raised myself and found my hands smeared with something damp and sticky.

“Jack! Speak, old fellow, speak!” I cried, but in the darkness there was neither sound nor movement.

Rushing into the study, I snatched up the light, and as its soft radiance fell upon the blanched features I made a discovery so startling that the lamp nearly fell from my trembling hand.

The man lying there was not Jack Bethune, as I had believed, but Gilbert Sternroyd. He had been shot through the heart!

Placing the lamp upon the floor, I knelt and thrust my hand eagerly beneath his shirt-front, but there was no movement of the heart. His hands were cold; he must have been dead several hours.

His coat and vest were disarranged, as if the murderer had hurriedly searched his victim’s pockets, and on the mat outside the bedroom door lay the shining weapon. I recognised the army revolver as Jack’s.

Horrified, I took up the lamp again and stood gazing into the white drawn face of the mysterious friend of the Lady Fyneshade, utterly at a loss how to act. My first impulse was to raise an alarm, but I saw that such a course must imperil my friend. I could not realise the terrible truth, yet all the evidence pointed to the person who had perpetrated the crime. Had he not, only on the previous night, admitted himself jealous of this young man?

With uneven steps and scarce daring to tread lest I should create a noise and betray my presence, I returned to the study. As I entered I noticed for the first time that some of the drawers in the writing-table were open, and that many letters were strewn about, evidently tossed aside in rapid search. There was a strong smell of burnt paper in the room, and as I bent toward the grate I found it full of dead, black tinder.

The murderer, before his flight, had destroyed a number of documents. Examining the drawers, I discovered to my surprise that they had been forced. If Jack had destroyed any implicating evidence would he not have used his keys? Some of the papers in the grate were not quite consumed, and, picking them up, I examined the fragments under the lamp. They were portions of letters in feminine handwriting, the characteristics of which were unfamiliar to me.

I gathered them up, together with a whole letter that was lying at the side of the table, evidently overlooked, and thrust them into my pocket. In presence of the murdered man the darkness seemed filled with a spectral horror, and even the noises I myself created startled me. The reading-lamp gave scarcely sufficient light to illuminate the corners of the room, and I knew not whether the murderer might still be lurking there. Appalled by the ghastly discovery and at the sight of blood, I knew that if discovered there I might be charged with the crime, therefore, after a final glance at the dead man’s face, I extinguished the light and stole softly out, hurrying down the stairs and gaining the street in fear lest any of the other tenants might encounter me.

But all was quiet. I escaped unobserved.

On arrival at my own chambers I cleansed my hands of Sternroyd’s blood, and entering my sitting-room turned up the gas. My eyes caught sight of my own face in the mirror. It was pale and haggard as that of the victim of the secret tragedy.

Having gulped down a stiff glass of brandy to steady my nerves, I proceeded in breathless eagerness to examine the fragments of private papers which effort had been made to destroy.

The first I inspected were apparently portions of a legal document. In a firm clerk’s hand were the words ”…and the said John Arthur Bethune on this fourteenth day of…” upon one, and on the other ”…undertake to preserve this secret knowledge until after my death…”

The other scraps were parts of letters, but the words I deciphered conveyed to me no meaning. They contained no endearing terms, and were evidently not billets-doux. One of them contained the passage ”…to give credence to these absurd rumours which I assure you are totally unfounded…” and another, ”…I look to you as my friend to preserve the reputation of a defenceless woman…” The name “Markwick” occurred several times, and once it was “that vile, despicable coward, Markwick.”

“That vile, despicable coward, Markwick,” I repeated aloud. I reflected deeply, but remembered no one of that name. I could find no signature upon these scraps of yellow, half-charred paper, neither was there anything to show when they had been written. On both sides of each portion there were words, but very few of them had context, and consequently Conveyed no knowledge of their purport.

One of the scraps, however, held my eyes in fascination. It bore my own name. The writing was a hand I knew, and the words decipherable were ”…desire that your friend Stuart Ridgeway should remain in ignorance of the fact. He is your friend and mine, therefore I…”

“Great Heaven!” I cried aloud, “the writing is Sybil’s!” I recognised the hand. It was the same in which she had written me the cruel note of farewell in Luchon, and this had been in Jack’s possession! Even these half-charred words brought back to me memories of those few days when we were happy in each other’s love.

At last I took up the letter that had been overlooked by the murderer in his mad haste. The envelope bore a superscription in a fine regular Italian hand and showed that it had been sent to Hounslow Barracks, the postrnark being dated three days before. Taking out the sheet of notepaper in eager expectancy, I opened it and read the following words – “Tuesday – Dear Sir, – Her ladyship wishes me to write and say that she will arrive at Feltham Station by the train leaving Waterloo at 3:08 on Friday afternoon. She desires to see you on a most important matter, and hopes you will make the meeting apparently accidental, in case there may be at the station any person known to her. Her ladyship also urges that you should keep this appointment in order to avoid some unpleasantness that appears imminent. If, however, you cannot meet her, kindly telegraph to me personally. – Yours truly, Annie Ashcombe.”

Thrice I read the letter through and stood holding it between my fingers silent and puzzled. Who, I wondered, was “her ladyship?” Was it old Lady Stretton, or was it Mabel? The writer was evidently a lady’s maid, and, as she signed her name, it seemed to me that she might be traced by means of an ingeniously-worded advertisement. But this would necessarily occupy time.

I had never heard of any maid named Ashcombe. Old Lady Stretton’s maid, Frewen, I had known for years, while Mabel’s was a French girl, named Celestine, all vivacity, frills, and ribbons. Feltham was, I remembered, a small old-world village about a mile and a half from Hounslow Barracks, on the line between Twickenham and Staines, a quiet, unfrequented place whereat few trains stopped. On several occasions when I had visited Jack in Barracks, I had returned to town from there, and its choice as a place of meeting, combined with the words of Jack’s correspondent, showed that “her ladyship,” whoever she was, took every precaution to conceal her movements. What could be the important matter upon which the fair patrician desired to consult him; of what nature the unpleasantness that seemed imminent? Again, if he could not keep the appointment he was urged to communicate not with her ladyship, but with her maid. Was Jack Bethune this woman’s lover? Was he playing a double game?

I stifled these thoughts instantly. No! Although it was apparent that he was aware of my love for Sybil and was her confidant, I would not believe ill of him until I held absolute proof.

“Proof,” I murmured aloud. “What greater proof can I have than the evidence of the fearful tragedy I have discovered?”

I flung myself into my chair and thought over the strange discovery of a portion of Sybil’s letter. Apparently a secret had existed between them.

From whatever standpoint I viewed the crime and its mysterious surroundings I could not rid myself of the terrible suspicion that Jack Bethune, the popular officer and celebrated writer, had fired the fatal shot. If he were innocent why had he hurriedly destroyed his papers?

He had admitted himself jealous of Gilbert Sternroyd, and had betrayed his hatred of the young man by his refusal to explain who he was and his eagerness to avoid discussion regarding him. The words he used recurred to me, and I now detected in his manner how intensely bitter was his feeling.

Again and again I examined the scattered fragments that lay upon my table, but from them could gather no further information. The message from the mysterious lady seemed to contain some important clue, yet its true significance was unintelligible. Somehow I felt confident that the meeting at Feltham had some direct connection with the tragedy. Mabel was Sternroyd’s friend, for while driving me from Gloucester Square he had inadvertently referred to her as “Mab;” therefore, after all, it seemed highly probable that she was the mysterious woman who spoke in such veiled terms of “unpleasantness.”

The fire died down and went out, the clock upon the mantelshelf chimed hour after hour on its musical bell, but I heeded not time. I was wondering who was Markwick, the “vile, despicable coward,” and dreading the result of the discovery of the crime. I feared to telegraph to Hounslow to ascertain Jack’s whereabouts, lest by so doing I should betray my knowledge of the tragedy. I held in my possession what might perhaps prove to be evidence of a most important character, evidence that might convict him of a foul murder, and I was determined to keep it secret, at least for the present, and by that means assist my friend, even if he were guilty, to escape.

In a few hours, I told myself, Mrs Horton and her daughter would go there to do the cleaning, and would find the body. Then the police would raise a hue and cry, and by noon the gloating gutter journals would be full of “Another West-End Mystery.”

I felt that by preserving my secret I was shielding an assassin, perhaps assisting him to escape, but, dumbfounded at the overwhelming evidence of Jack’s guilt, I sat shuddering, awe-stricken, inanimate.

I dropped off to sleep in my chair and did not awake until Saunders entered, and I found it was morning. My breakfast went away untouched, but I scanned the paper and was gratified at my inability to find mention of the ghastly discovery. Neither telegram nor letter came from Jack, though I waited at home until afternoon. Oppressed by my terrible secret, inactivity maddened me and I went out, feeling that I wanted air or the companionship of friends. After a short walk I turned into the club and ascended to the smoking-room, panelled in black oak, on the first floor, where I expected to find someone with whom to gossip and pass the time. When I entered I found several city men had grouped themselves around the fire, and, lounging back in their chairs, were discussing some deep scheme of company-promoting, in which I had no interest. I sat down to scribble a note, caring not for their Stock Exchange jargon, until suddenly the name of Fyneshade caused me to prick up my ears.

“Bah! he’d become one of our directors at once if we made it worth his while,” an elderly man observed, sitting with hat tilted back and a long cigar between his lips.

“I doubt it,” another voice exclaimed. “His name carries weight, but he’s not in want of fees.”

“If he isn’t at this moment he very soon will be,” the other answered knowingly. “He’s now got scarcely a fiver to bless himself with.”

“I don’t believe that,” the others cried in chorus.

“My dear fellows,” answered the elder man. “His pretty wife has absolutely ruined him. Another year, and he’ll be in the Bankruptcy Court.”

“Well, she’s cutting a pretty brilliant figure just now,” exclaimed one. “I saw her at the Gaiety the other night and she looked simply magnificent. She had some young fellow in her box, a fair, insipid-looking youth. Nobody knew who he was.”

“The latest lover, I suppose,” laughed the man who had announced the Earl’s impending bankruptcy. “If report speaks true she’s rather addicted to flirtation.”

“No doubt,” observed one of his companions. “But we’re discussing business just now, not scandal. The virtues or shortcomings of the Countess don’t concern us; what we want is to get Fyneshade on our board. Can it be done?”

“Yes,” promptly answered the man who had first spoken. “I’ll manage it.”

“If you do, then we need have no fear as to the future of the Great Watersmeet Mining and Exploration Company. The Earl’s name carries weight, and, bankrupt or solvent, his influence will be extremely beneficial to us.”

“Very well. I’ll call on him to-morrow,” the man said, blowing a cloud of smoke upward. Then their conversation quickly turned upon some technicalities regarding the property they had acquired somewhere in Mashona-land.

Their suggestion that Mabel had already caused her husband financial difficulties was new to me. If true, it was certainly a startling fact, and as I sat making pretence of continuing my letter, I could not help feeling that there might be a good deal of truth in what I had overheard. That Mabel was recklessly extravagant; that her entertainments were among the most popular in London; and that her smart circle included many of the Royalties and the wealthiest, were facts known to everybody. She was a leader of fashion, and her bills at Worth’s and Redfern’s since her marriage must have been as large as those of an empress. Toward women she was unmerciful. With her, dowdiness was a crime, and the wearing of a hat or gown a little out of date an unforgivable offence against Society’s laws. She had lately been living at such a terrific rate that her extravagance had become notorious; but I had always believed the rent-roll of Fyneshade to be enormous, and such an eventuality as the Bankruptcy Court had never once entered my mind. This man, a Jew company promoter, apparently had good grounds for his assertion, and his words caused me to ponder deeply, as I descended the stairs and went out with the intention to call at Lady Stretton’s, and ascertain whether Dora had heard from her lover.

Who was this mysterious Sternroyd who had admired Mabel and who now lay dead, shot by an unknown hand? What connection could he have had with my adored one, or with that grim untenanted mansion in Gloucester Square? I took the portrait from my pocket and in the fading light glanced at it as I slowly walked. Yes, there was no mistaking the features, nor the oddly-shaped scarf-pin. It was undoubtedly the same man.

Chapter Ten

Tattle and Tragedy

When half-an-hour later I sat drinking tea en famille with Lady Stretton and her daughter, I confess I felt ill at ease, notwithstanding their light and pleasant gossip.

“I really don’t think you are looking very well, Stuart,” the old lady was saying, as the footman handed her her cup. “Town life does not agree with you, perhaps.”

“No,” I said. “I always prefer the country.”

“So do I. If it were not for dear Dora’s sake, I think I should live at Blatherwycke altogether.”

“You would very soon tire of it, mother,” her daughter laughed. “You know very well when we are down there you are always wanting to see your friends in town.” Lady Stretton looked always stiff and formal in her rich satins. Nearly sixty, with a profusion of white hair and a rather red face, she brimmed over with corpulence, and still preserved some remnant of the beauty that was half sunken beneath her grossness. To me she was always complimentary and caressing. But she said “My dear” to everybody, spoke in a high-pitched voice, and played the child with that doleful languor characteristic of corpulent persons. She loved secrets, made everything a matter of confidence, talked gossip, and was fond of speaking in one’s ear. She pitied others; pitied herself; she bewailed her misfortunes and her physical ills. Nothing could have been more pathetic than her constant attacks of indigestion. She took a very real interest in the career of her friends, for it was part of her completeness to be the centre of a set of successful people.

“We are going to Blatherwycke the day after to-morrow,” she said. “The hunting this season has been excellent. Have you been out yet?”

“Not once,” I replied. “I haven’t been home this season, but I mean to go down in a week or so and have a run with the hounds.”

“Oh, that will be awfully jolly,” Dora exclaimed, gleefully. “We’re having a house-party, so we shall hope to see something of you.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Memories of our many runs are distinctly pleasant, so I hope we may be companions again.”

“Of course. Why, the papers always speak of you as one of the familiar figures in the field,” she said. “The hounds are out three days a week now, and foxes are awfully plentiful about Rockingham Forest and away beyond Apethorpe.”

“Let’s hope we shall obtain a few brushes,” I said, and then our conversation was mainly upon past recollections of rapid runs, of the artfulness displayed by various reynards, and of spills, amusing and serious.

No woman who rode with the Fitzwilliam hounds sat her horse so magnificently as Dora Stretton. Even my old friend William Raven, of King’s Cliffe, for many years one of the most prominent figures in hunting circles in North Northamptonshire, but now of venerable age, white-bearded, and unable to ride to the meet; a thorough hunting man of the old school, who, when the hounds pass his window, rises from his warm armchair, thrusts his hands deep into his pockets, and sighs wistfully because he is not longer agile enough to take part in the sport that he loves; an outspoken critic of all things pertaining to the hunt, and never tired of comparing the splendid riding of twenty years ago with the sloppy form now displayed by foppish youngsters who come down from town and hunt “because it is the thing, you know,” was compelled to acknowledge the grace, daring, and firmness always displayed by Lady Stretton’s youngest daughter. Her pace was usually a hot one; she took dangerous leaps with a recklessness that was astounding, thought nothing of fatigue, and was almost invariably in at the death.

The prospect of mad, exhilarating gallops with her was to me very pleasant, for I was passionately fond of the saddle. But alas! my anticipations were chilled by the knowledge of the fearful secret in my inner consciousness.

Dora sat in her low chair, bright, radiant, and happy. Her hair was a trifle disarranged, but it is the prettiest hair that sheds the most hairpins. What if I told her the terrible nature of my discovery, of the awful suspicion that the man who was her hero was a murderer, and had fled?

But I chatted to them about mutual acquaintances, discussed Jack’s latest book, “The Siren of Strelitz,” which the reviewers were declaring to be the novel of the season, and talked of art at the Grosvenor and the New, without scarcely knowing what words I uttered or what opinion I endorsed. The mention of “The Siren of Strelitz” caused Lady Stretton some little annoyance, and I could not help feeling amused. What, I wondered, would this haughty woman of the world say when in a few brief hours, the papers raised a hue and cry for the popular soldier-novelist, in whose room a man had been found shot dead?

Even as I sat calmly gossiping over the tea-cups the police wires might already be at work and the detectives lounging at the ports of departure aroused from their cat-like lethargy to stand with keen eye, watching every person embarking on Channel and other steamers. I had no interest in her ladyship’s idle talk; I was only waiting for her to go out of the room so that I might ask a hurried question of her daughter.

At last, the corpulent old lady rose with an effort and a rustling of silk, and left us.

“Well,” I said, rising and taking up a position before the fire, “have you seen anything of Jack to-day?”

“No,” she replied, a faint blush suffusing her cheeks. “I was in the Row this morning and looked out for him, but he was not there. I expect he is still at Hounslow.”

“Did he tell you he was going to Hounslow?” I asked. “Yes, he sent me a note yesterday morning, saying that one of his brother-officers had been compelled to obtain leave unexpectedly, and that he was going down to do duty for him.”

“For how long?”

“He said he would be back again last night,” and placing her hand in her pocket she drew forth the letter, and read it to reassure herself that she had made no mistake.

“I want to see him on a most important matter; if he does not return I shall have to run down to Hounslow,” I said. Then, as if suddenly remembering, I added, “Oh, by the way, do you know any maid named Ashcombe – Annie Ashcombe?”

“Ashcombe,” she repeated, puzzled. “Why do you want to know the names of servant-maids? What interest have you in her?”

“I – er – well, I want to find her, that’s all. If I can discover her she’ll hear something to her advantage, as the solicitors’ advertisements say.”

“I’m sorry I can’t help the young person to her good fortune,” she laughed. “However, I’ll bear the name in mind, and if I come across her I won’t fail to let you know.”

“Thanks,” I said. “It is most important that I should find her as quickly as possible, so you might render me a real service if you would make inquiries among your friends.”

“Of course, I’ll do anything to oblige you,” she said frankly. “Ashcombe – I shall remember the name.”

“And you will let me know as soon as you hear from Jack?”

“Certainly,” she answered. “I’ll send you word at once.”

At that moment our tête-à-tête was interrupted by the reappearance of Lady Stretton, who said:

“Dora and I are going to the Lyceum first night. If you’ll join us in our box we shall be charmed.”

“Thanks very much,” I replied. “I shall be delighted.” I had no especial desire to witness an Irving play, but in my gloomy frame of mind any diversion seemed better than the loneliness of my own chambers.

“Very well. Run home and dress, return and dine with us, and we will go along together. We shall meet Mr Gilbert Sternroyd there. Do you know him?” her ladyship asked.

The mention of the name caused me to start, and I felt that a sudden pallor overspread my face.

“Mabel introduced me,” I stammered.

“Charming young fellow! So wealthy, too,” exclaimed Lady Stretton, a remark which was received with a little grimace by Dora, at that moment standing behind her mother.

“I know very little of him,” I said in a strained voice. “I only met him once.”

Then I left, went home, dressed and returned. Dinner was served with that old-fashioned stateliness that characterised everything in the Stretton household, and I was thoroughly glad when dessert was reached. Afterward, we drove to the theatre, and found in several boxes and scattered over the stalls many mutual acquaintances. Several men and women came to us and exchanged greetings, and more than once her ladyship observed:

“I wonder why Mr Sternroyd does not come, Dora? He promised me faithfully.”

“I don’t know, mother,” answered her daughter unconcernedly. “I suppose he is better engaged at his club, or elsewhere.”

“Well, it is decidedly ungentlemanly not to have sent a line of regret,” the old lady observed, sniffing angrily.

Did they perceive by my silence and my face that their talk was torturing me? Did they expect a dead man to seat himself in the vacant chair awaiting him? These constant references to the victim of the tragedy unnerved me. What would they think if they knew that the young man who had promised to escort them was now lying stiff and cold?

The play proceeded, the calls were taken, the curtain fell, and when the usual bouquets had been presented to Miss Terry, the great actor addressed a few well-chosen words to his admirers. All was brilliant, everyone was enthusiastic; the play was voted an unqualified success. Yet I, the most lethargic, conscience-stricken wretch amid that gay, well-dressed, bejewelled throng, was oppressed by the knowledge of an awful secret, for upon me had been forced by Dora’s words increased suspicion that one of the most popular writers of the day was an assassin.

Outside, under the portico, the vendors of “extra specials” were shouting the latest news, varying their strident cries with the monotonous question, “Keb or kerridge?” In eagerness I listened to their words and glanced at the contents-bills – pink, green, amber, and white – thrust under my nose, but in a few moments reassured myself that the tragedy still remained undiscovered.